I like “Negative Creep” by Nirvana. The massive, chunky, crispy, raspy pulse of the main guitar riff. That riff tastes sweet. It’s granulated like sugar cane candy, or how I imagine it. It’s not walking forward. It’s standing and swiping. Kurt Cobain’s voice goes right over it. Sailing, standing. Clearing a path through the muck that’s been in the way. You just clear it out because you’re standing there. Holding the sway of sweet crunch.
I’m ridiculously bored. I’m in a rectangle staring out the winding at what is that. I like the river, but the city seems intimidating like a performance of might. It’s walking forward just to make you watch it do it.
I can leave but I can’t. I’m going to stand on the sweet wave of sweet crunch.
good god with the empire of self- assertion by child
A coil heats up red hot in my gut and fills my chest and throat with acrid fumes that someone can just get up and walk into a private bubble while I make a point to endure. You don’t get to pick how much of this you inhale. You belong to it. You can’t crop dust your presence. I’m okay with having to sit here and push. It’s work. I get work. I would not close that door behind me.
I can do it. But it’s maddening that I can’t flex the flesh that I made so superb. I would slay with a fully articulated thought. I choke on one liners. This is a kingdom of someone else’s method. Its knowledge is not bullshit, but here it gets handled with little care. It’s treated casually but with fervor. It fills in the gaps of unexamined voids. Voids are to be jumped into.
Why do I have to lift alone? Saying that makes me feel like I’m whining. I’m naked.